A letter

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Dear Baby Who Lives in My Uterus,

I’m now 35 weeks pregnant with you. If you don’t believe me, have a look for yourself:

This means that you are almost here! I say ‘almost’ despite that fact that your expected arrival is still 5 weeks away. But we started out at 280 days, and we’re down to only 35 days left to go; I think I can safely say that you really are almost here. And I can’t wait!

Neither can your big brother, Ethan. Every day he asks to “look at baby?” and lifts up my shirt. He likes to nuzzle my belly, and give it lots of hugs and kisses; I’m not entirely sure if he understands that you are inside my belly, and that you are not actually my belly itself. Regardless, he seems to love you a whole lot already, belly face and all, and even tries to give you some of his cars to play with. Although at other times, he will get a running start and come at me, full force, and tackle us. He plays rough, baby, I’m warning you now.

One time Ethan placed both his hands on my belly, right on top of you, held still a moment, and then jerked his hands (and my belly) real fast. Then he looked up at me and informed me in a very serious voice that “The baby did that.” This may be a sign that he is practicing blaming things on you. But don’t worry; I bought him a couple of little gifts that I’ll give him when you arrive (some stickers with his name on them, this shirt, and a new LeapPad book); clearly, I am not above bribing him into liking you, if that’s what it comes down to.

You are a KICKER, little kid. And you are all over the place, constantly rolling around and grabbing at my internal organs. Even as I type this, you’ve got what must be both your feet shoved up into my ribs, and let me tell you, it is not a pleasant sensation. Sure, I love your little kicks, I love to see random mysterious body parts protrude from my belly and slowly slide from one side of it to the other. It’s cool. Very Alien. And it totally freaks your dad out, which amuses me. But you know, you could tone it down a bit, at least while I’m trying to sleep, say between the hours of midnight and 6am. That’s all I’m sayin’.

You don’t have a name yet, but I’m hopeful that your dad and I will have agreed on one by the time we leave the hospital with you. I can’t guarantee that, but I’ll do my best. It’s kind of hard when your father suggests things like “Angry Adams” and “Greg Craig Adams” though. That is what I’m dealing with here. This is also the same guy who dreamed the other night that we had you and brought you home from the hospital unnamed and after a while, not able to come up with anything, we just starting calling you Ethan. And when that got confusing, we began referring to you as Two. He might sound a little crazy, your dad, but he’s awesome; you’ll like him, trust me. Especially once you hear him sing the bath time song, “Red and Blue.” (I know I fell in love with him all over again when I caught that performance.)

I can’t go anywhere lately it seems without complete strangers stopping me and informing me (in their Expert Opinions) that I look as if I’m about to pop. When I tell them I’ve still got a month to go, they literally don’t believe me, and I finding myself trying to convince them, complete strangers who don’t matter in the least, that it’s true. The funny thing is, though, that I agree with them. Not only do I too think I look as if I’m about to pop, I feel that way. I am certain that you will arrive early; in fact, I’m kind of thinking you’ll be here the weekend after Thanksgiving. And you know that if that’s what happens, I will totally be calling you my little Butterball. I’m sorry, but get used to it. You’ll be hearing it a lot.

I’ve got our hospital bags mostly packed, and I suggest you do the same. Also, don’t forget to turn off the lights and lock the door when you leave. No, seriously, lock the door. (Six weeks? I will pay my doctor to change that to six months.) Grab your wallet and your placenta on the way out. We’re anxiously awaiting you! I’ll be the one with the mouthful of turkey sub.